Past Tense
by Spunksterdawg
Summary: I would never have expected to want sleepless nights so badly,never would have wanted any more noise,any more utter chaos in my life so badly. But I did. God dammit,I did. Robincentric?
1. Chapter 1

**ANI don't write disclaimers, cuz this is FANfiction, meaning FANS rite them, not the owner or any co producers and what not. Kinda short, the title doesn't really make sense at first, and I'm not too sure that there was a well constructed plot. The plot exists, but I think it was poorly administered…OH! Nd cud someone tell me what beta-ing is? I'm a bit outta the loop. ( . )**

**Rated: T – due partly to miniscule ref. to love-making, and partly because I label pretty much all my stories as T.**

**Genre: General, with slight tragedy (I think). **

**Past Tense**

I want it. I want it, want it, _want it_.

Like Hell, I want it.

There is nothing in my life I want as much as _that_.

Or more so, want_ed_ as much as _that_.

I would never have expected to want sleepless nights so badly, never would have wanted any more noise, any more utter chaos in my life so badly.

But I did.

God _dammit_, I did.

I wanted to feel it: wanted heavy bags under my eyes, wanted sore arms; I _wanted_ that splitting migraine every blaring second of my life.

Hell, I _already_ have to run out each week for more aspirin.

I already had all those things, but never in my life had I _wanted_ it.

Those idle relics, those sacred talismans, those symbolic trophies would be like the merit badges on every Boy Scout's dream sash.

Not that I _was_ Boy Scout.

But to feel it in my arms like seven pounds of feathers and _Johnson & Johnson's_™ brand baby wash—that would be heaven.

A holy and blessed kind of uncharted waters just beyond my reach, but filling up every space in my head.

With my eyes, I see Cyborg and Beast Boy battling it out over the Gamestation, Starfire concocting some kind of Tameranean delicacy, Raven (_my_ Raven, I'll have you know—marked her myself…not that Raven is property…) indulged in some Edgar Allen Poe-come-alive kind of novel.

But that's not what I see in my heart, in my very existence. No, I don't cheer on the boys—because I can't; I'm not really seeing them.

Instead I see Raven, coated in a fine layer of sweat, hair tousled, in a sterile white hospital gown, contradicting her dark indigo locks, and uncannily reminiscent of her pale, porcelain skin. I see her eyes shining, cast downward to the bundle in her arms, unidentifiable to any stranger, yet wailing with such familiarity in its tone to none but Raven and me.

I don't cringe at Starfire's attempt at cooking.

Instead, I flinch in bed, as loud crying infiltrates my sleep. I turn on my side to see a slight depression where Raven's form once lay—we share a bed in my fantasy (for purely clean intentions, mind you). I shuffle out of bed, and down the imaginary hall of my imaginary house to the imaginary bedroom of my—here, in reality I wince—_imaginary_ child, and I see my sweet Raven, half asleep in a wooden chair overstuffed with pillows, rocking the miniscule heap in her arms, singing some lullaby I vaguely remember from some distant memory of my short-lived and long forgotten childhood.

I'm too lost in fiction even to read the back of Raven's paperback book.

Instead I step from the threshold of the decorative, infantile room and lift not one, but two bodies up into my lap. I can feel the warmth of Raven's body lingering on the back and seat of the chair, and I continue singing where Raven's voice left off. And the voice that's singing is mine, but not mine—it's my mother's voice, my father's voice—lulling the baby to sleep. And even as the crying ceases, and the movement stills to none but the rise and fall of that tiny chest, I sing and sing, and the faint hum of the overhead fan and the small, rhythmic, squeaking of the rocking chair and the choir of crickets all seem to interlock and mold together with the singing and the warmth on my lap and it spreads from my thighs; down to my toes, and up and up through my stomach, and as it reaches my heart, as though it's part of the very blood that makes me, it spreads through my entire system, filling up each and every capillary more and more with each heart beat. And there's heat in my head, and it's not an ego, but love. And everything starts to become fuzzy, and I can't hear anything but that lullaby and the hum, and the squeak, and the grand choir of some cricket cathedral.

And everything sounds like music, conducted by some legendary conductor, before the audience of some high monarchy, rising in some vast, breathtaking, climactic crescendo, and soon it becomes so strong and overwhelming, I can't help but cry, and my eyes begin to burn, and I need to blink, but I can't, I can't pull my eyes away from this dream and I feel as though an unseen force were sucking the breath, the very soul out of me, and all that tension pulling at my lungs, my back is beginning to arch, I can feel it, and the pit of my stomach clenches and tightens, and I can feel my legs numbing and my elbows locking, and my fingers pulled together in a white fist, and all the while that music is playing louder and louder and the orchestra reaches its highest peak of volume, and stops so suddenly.

And my muscles relax so suddenly and without warning that it feels as though I were a slingshot, being stretched forward so far, that when your fingers slip, it snaps back like a whip, and I feel like my entire body is flying backwards, snapping like a rubber-band.

And a loud, throaty sob is yanked out of my mouth so violently, that I blink, and I see….

The living room. And for the first time all day, I see Cyborg, and Beast Boy and Starfire and Raven, all looking at me, concerned and wide eyed.

It takes me a moment to realize the errant tears on my cheeks, and I feel one drip onto my arm with such a quiet 'plop'. And I know that the sob was real. And loud.

And I feel like crying, but I am Robin, protégé of Batman, and all I can do is turn and run up the stairs to my room.

And I want to see that wonderful fantasy again, but I don't even try to, because I know I won't be able to.

I yank my mask off so hard, so aggressively, that you can hear it peeling off my face.

And standing there, staring at my puffy-eyed, bloodshot reflection, I know that as much as I say I want_ed_ it, the truth is, I _want_ it. _I still want it_.

But standing there, watching the crystalline drops of liquid catch the light on their descent, I know that….

**I can't.**

**I want to, but I can't. **

And I wish with such desolation and dejectedness, and above all else, bitterness, that I could put that dreadful word, 'can't' into past tense.

**I think the ending was kinda lame….but wut I meant by that was that by putting 'Can't' into past tense, it becomes 'Couldn't', meaning that before, he couldn't, but now Robin could. Did that make any sense at all? Idk if I wrote it well, or if I kept mentioning similar things at two completely different times. And the stuff in parenthesis, was still Robin speaking, not me, even though in a way, if taken the wrong way it could be considered an AN. Which it wasn't…does _that_ make any sense at all? Nd please tell me if u think it was a good idea never to actually mention the words fatherhood, parenthood, or baby (except in reference to baby wash). It's open for discussion. **

**Review. Flames accepted. Constructive criticism appreciated. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I think this chapter was a bit on the cheesy side. The name's also kinda long, but all in all I think you'll be satisfied with wut ur about to read. **

**Of Masks and Men: To Mask and to Have Been Masked**

Never had I been so aware of the domino cloth stuck to my face. Never had I been so aware that despite my efforts, the mask wasn't _really_ a part of me—no, it had volume, a paper-thin width—and never, _never_ had I been so aware of the now tear-soaked rim. It had always been like a second skin to me, but now…now everything was different. It felt so foreign on my face; felt sensationally and uncomfortably warm against my skin.

Suddenly it felt like a wet band aid. No matter how much I wanted it to stick, no matter how desperately I pressed it to my face, it was slipping off, sliding away, melting beneath my eternal gaze.

My mask, my façade, was slipping between my fingers.

I felt ready to explode. I felt flammable; an aerosol compressed to the breaking point of all breaking. Hell, you could stamp my forehead with a label saying WARNING: CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE in big, black letters and a little exclamation mark.

"Aaarghhh!" I ripped that damn mask off, but it wasn't enough, god dammit!

I clenched that mask in my fist, scrunching it up and crinkling the material. In a sudden blind and impassioned frenzy of rage, a whirled on my heel and threw that _stupid_ mask at the wall. I tore off those ugly green gloves, yanked that annoying beehive cape from around my neck, and with an immense heave, grabbed one side, and without bothering to unclip it, _wrenched_ off that _damn, shit_ utility belt.

I smiled in satisfaction at the cut one of those idiotic birdarangs left all across my palm, from the middle rung of my pinky finger down past my thumb, and just grazing my wrist. I felt a searing heat racing down my spine, splitting me in half. I felt an amazing commotion stirring inside me, a skin-crawling flame, a gut-wrenching envelopment, a foggy-eyed daze, and I all but ripped off my red shirt, kicked my steel-toed boots so hard they rammed into the metal door with a loud 'thump', and peeled the jade spandex off my thighs.

And strangely enough, standing in the middle of the room wearing nothing but a pair of red, checkered boxers, I felt calm, and relaxed.

I collapsed to the grey wall-to-wall carpeting of my room, and crawled over to the small closet near the back of the room. I slid the door open, and rummaged through the mess of red, yellow and green, to a small pile at the bottom. I smiled at the lump of clothes, and making sure not to drip any blood on the soft fabric, I lifted up an oversized, plain white tee-shirt and clutched it to my bare chest.

It still smelled of my father.

I shrugged on the cloth, and reveled in the feeling of real cloth on my skin, different from that clingy feeling of spandex. I breathed in the musky, masculine smell of my father, and every nerve in my body tingled with giddy stimulation at the feeling of downy soft cotton threads rubbing against my skin.

I wrapped my arms around myself, and flopped backwards onto my bed.

Never had I felt so good. I felt like a child again, being tucked in by my parents, being sung to sleep; it felt so surreal, so ethereal.

I took the time to see my hands, my legs, for the first time. I wiggled my toes and couldn't remember the last time they weren't stuffed into tight metal-clad combat boots. I lifted a hand closer to my eyes, palm up. I traced the creases and crevices and wrinkles, and poked and prodded at the soft, plushy flesh. I curled my fingers, one bend at a time, and watched in fascination at the way a movement as simple as that could whip the bones in my wrist into such a frenzy. And then came the fingernails. I observed the pale, natural pinkish-tan of the nail, the curve of the thin, white crescent at the very tip, the agreeable material of my cuticles. I wondered if my nails _ever_ grew, as after all this time, the white tips remained as small and obscure as it always was.

I flipped my hand over, and stared at my knuckles, I saw the way the even tone of my skin was disrupted by a strange shade of tan covering the entire bump of the knuckle; a scar, a memory of a long-ago accident I couldn't even remember. I curled and uncurled my fingers once more, and was astonished at the twitchy movements of my finger bones, in motion like whirring clockwork cogs beneath my skin. I noticed the faint blue of my veins peeking through the skin, and I pondered how they could remain so strong under such thin skin, enduring the rigorous training each Monday brought.

My eyes traveled further downward, the fingers of my other hand tracing circles around the bumps of my wrist bone. Continuing downward, I realized that, unlike most males my age, I had no hairs poking through the skin of my arms.

I looked down at my uncovered legs and came to the shocking revelation that neither my arms nor legs grew hair. I guess spandex does that to you. I bent and unbent my legs and watched the lean muscles ripple just under the surface. I watched the skin around my knees crease and relax, the way the skin contracted, taut, and then relaxed, comfy. I scrutinized the bumps of my knee and ran my eyes down, along my shin bone, to my ankles, which held particular interest to me. I stared at the bump on each side, watched how as I wriggled my foot form side to side, one jutting bone hid, and one revealed itself, the first revealed itself, the second hid.

I concluded the examination with my feet, which were of little interest with the exception of my toes.

I looked up as I heard the soft wisp of cloth even before I heard a tender knock on the door.

I rubbed out the haziness from my grey-blue eyes and walked to the door. I pressed the small red button on the right, and the sheet of metal slid open to reveal a very concerned Raven.

Without even a split-second hesitation, she pulled me into her warm embrace.

Surprised, I allowed my arms to wrap around her back. It took me a moment to blink twice and I squeezed her towards me with such intensity it felt like we weren't even two separate people—and in a way, we weren't. I pressed her body flush against mine, and it felt so natural, it felt so perfectly interlocking. I could feel the curves of her chest against mine, I could feel her heartbeat through my shirt and I was sure she could feel mine, too. I could feel her hipbones against the very top of my thighs (yes, Raven was indeed a bit shorter than me) and I could feel her thighs against mine—in my current, under-dressed state, our skin met in an unfamiliar but pleasant way; her knees right beneath mine in a way that molded us together even further. Every plane of my body was evenly and perfectly matched by hers. Every crevice was filled by the other—we were like a fully-complete puzzle, every bump and bend perfectly complimented by the other. She filled all of my senses; her lilac and chamomile scent invaded my nose with its aromatic charm, her warmth plagued my every nerve, the sound of her slow, even breathing was the only thing ringing in my ears, all I could taste was the recollection of her pale lips pressed to mine, and of course, all I could see was her, and me, and the deep purple of her hair, and eyes and the profound blueness of her cloak.

She pulled away to look into my eyes, and seemed to stare at my mind, my subconscious—which she very well may have been doing—and when I saw the twinkle, the laughter in her eyes, I knew it was coming, I knew what she was about to say—

"Nice boxers."

'Thanks."

Our hands collided, and a pale blue energy emanated from her hand as it healed the cut on my hand. Then, she took the edge of her cloak and wiped the dripping, slightly dried blood off of my hands. The dark red seemed to sink within the sea of blue. She looked up at me when she finished her ministrations, her eyebrows creasing one last, brief time, as she removed the last red raindrop.

I smiled down at her.

Our lips pressed together in a chaste kiss, and I could feel the warmth radiating even from her lips, and I watched the smooth unwrinkled eyelids cover her dusk violet almond-eyes, I drank in the curve of her eyelashes, not a single slender hair out of place, a took in the way her nose crinkled just a little bit and the way her brow relaxed into a content serenity. I studiously memorized the way her indigo bangs framed her pale skin, examining the stark contrast between the two most noticeable features of the small, petite woman pulled against me.

I was intently alert at the way her palms held the back of my neck and her fingers wrapped around the edge of my black hairline and the way she shuffled a bit on the balls of her feet as she tip-toed up to reach me, and I attentively scrutinized the soft, sweet, almost chocolaty taste of her creamy pouty kiss.

I felt her descend down onto her heels again, and I smiled at her.

I picked her up by her thighs as she clasped onto my neck and gasped at the sudden motion, and I walked backwards until the back of my foot touched against the bed, and I collapsed backwards, my knees bending around the edge of the bed frame. I scooted up so I was fully on the bouncy mattress, and unclasping her cloak and belt and gently placing them on the floor, pulled her down on top of me.

And lying there on my back, with Raven staring down at me, I couldn't help but smile at her (unintentional) puppy-dog look.

With one arm, I gently lifted her up enough for me to pull up my shirt and back down around her head. And, if it were possible, we were suddenly even closer. I couldn't help the sensational high from coming—her laying on top of me, pressed to my chest by the law of gravity, her warm breath against my collar bone, the way her hair fanned out around her head, and onto my arm—it was inevitable.

I pulled my arms out of the sleeves and let them rest gently inside my shirt, upon the warm rubbery spandex of her uniform, and I loved the unusual feeling of her clothing pressed against the skin of my chest.

"Give me an hour of your time."

In a content whispering sigh of a voice, she replied, "For what?"

I propped myself up on my elbows to look down at her picture-perfect face, and I smiled a pure, honest smile like none I had ever given before, even to Raven herself.

I laughed at the cute way she cocked her head to one side and the way the light glinted off of the chakra on her forehead, and her hair fell around her shoulders in swirls like a purple, velvet curtain, and I answered,

"To play dress up."

Her innocent confusion was nothing like her normal witty way of raising one of her eyebrows and answering with sardonic deadpan.

"Dress up?"

"Yeah, dress up."

I smiled, pulled my shirt up so she could get out from underneath it, and in an almost impossible way, twisted off the bed, grabbed her wrist and ran down the hall towards her room, Raven in tow, in nothing but a shirt that was two sizes too large and a pair or red, checkered boxers.

I could try to mask, but for once, I wanted to have _been_ masked.

Heroism could wait an hour.

So could I.

**The ending, where Robin tells Raven they're gonna play dress up, is left to ur imagination, but to give u a hint, it means they're going to 'step into someone else's shoes' for a while, and be a normal person, not a mystic telekinetic and a sidekick-gone-solo. **

**Also, idk if I sed this already, but I think im gonna circle each chapter around the theme of past, present, and/or future tense. Like 'to mask' and 'to have _been_ mask_ed_'. **

**c ya next time (if there is a next time) ! **


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